


Forget-Me-Not

by kindlywest



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Amnesia, Angst, Friendship, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Prompt Fill, Work In Progress, relationship(s) to be added as the story unfolds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-04 13:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindlywest/pseuds/kindlywest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks, tries to remember why he's here and why he's alone -- but no answer is forthcoming. He focuses instead on easier questions, like "Why am I carrying a sword?", "Why am I carrying a sword but no food?", "Why am I wearing blue?" and "What's my name?"</p><p>Sadly, he cannot answer any of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> An old prompt from the kink meme I started filling many (many) months ago; then I got extremely busy with life and only now, recently, I found my way back to it.
> 
> Prompt: _After he betrays Thorin (in Thorin's eyes anyways) Bilbo heads back to The Shire. Only some how along the way (maybe a huge storms separates him from Gandalf+whoever went with Bilbo) he gets lost and ends up somewhere completely different._
> 
>  _Up to filler if he gets amnesia or another ailment._ (http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/4373.html?thread=9648661#t9648661)
> 
> So, this story takes place after BOFA; everyone survived which, sadly, means that Thorin was still cross with Bilbo when he and Gandalf left. This is not beta:d. Also, I feel inclined to disclaim this work: I do not own anything, etc., etc.

They've just come out on the other side of Mirkwood when the storm hits them. It comes out of nowhere and even Gandalf has a hard time keeping upright in the roaring wind and stabbing rain. The sky is dark, save for minute flashes of lightning; thunder roars mightily and shakes the very ground beneath their feet.

Gandalf is shouting something-- Bilbo can't quite make it out over the loud noise of the angry nature, and besides, he's constantly falling further and further behind: he's doing everything he can to not be torn from the ground and thrown into the furious sky, but his stature is small and his weight light. Gandalf's shouts are growing fainter, as if getting further away -- and suddenly Bilbo can't hear him at all. He squints hard, desperately trying to catch sight of the Wizard, but it's a lost cause.

Bilbo screams himself hoarse, because he can't be left alone, not again, he's already been abandoned-- banished-- once, he can't do it again. He can't be alone, so he screams and shouts and yells, but his old friend has already disappeared from sight.

Bilbo lets out a sound that is possibly a sob, he's not sure, because he can't hear himself and he's frozen so deep, he can't feel his face or his hands or his feet.

All of a sudden, Bilbo loses his footing -- his feet slip and he barely has time to flail his arms, before he's tumbling down on the ground and crashing into a nearby rock.

Bilbo hears a wet, cracking noise that must come from himself, but he has no time to worry about it, for the world quickly grows fuzzy around the edges and then fades entirely to black.


	2. Chapter one

He comes to slowly, with the sound of birds singing in nearby trees and the sun warm on his face; he opens his eyes and is immediately blinded, light stabbing his eyes most cruelly. He groans and rolls over, only to groan again and then again, because he's aching all over -- he's got to be covered in bruises. But the ache in his body is very mild compared to the one in his head.

He sits up carefully, trying not to jar himself too much; with eyes closed, he carefully touches a hand to the back of his head and encounters something wet and sticky, that is matted and dried in his curls. He hisses and draws back; he cracks an eye open and confirms that it is indeed blood on his hand.

He takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and opens both of his eyes. The sun is still bright and cruel, but not quite as blinding any longer. He turns his head carefully from side to side and takes in his surroundings; the sky is clear and blue, there's a great forest in the distance and a muddy path before him.

He has no idea where he is. Or why he is here, now that he thinks about it. 

It's quite disconcerting, not knowing the why or the where, and he should probably be more worried; but as it is, his head is fuzzy and painful and now that he's attempting to stand up, he realises that's it's quite possible he can add a sprained ankle to his list of injuries. 

He starts walking, because there's nothing else he can do. He heads down the muddy path, because it looks slightly more welcoming than the tall forest, and the longer he walks, the more lost he feels. His chest feels tight, and his heart heavy; he feels almost as if he's in mourning, but he can't for the life of him remember why. He walks forward, while his heart wants nothing more than to turn back.

He walks and walks and becomes more lost with every step. When he's walked for what he's sure is hours, he feels even more forlorn and his body hurts worse than earlier. Hunger is scratching in his stomach and thirst burns in his throat, but he can't stop walking, he moves almost desperately forward, until the sun starts setting again. He sits down on a log and realises that he feels cold.

That is the least of his problems, however, because the more he thinks, the more his head hurts -- a sharp, throbbing sensation in the back of his head. He thinks, tries to remember why he's here and why he's alone -- but no answer is forthcoming. He focuses instead on easier questions, like "Why am I carrying a sword?", "Why am I carrying a sword but no food?", "Why am I wearing blue?" and "What's my name?"

Sadly, he cannot answer any of them.

\---

Mind-boggling confusion or no, instincts he wasn’t aware he had urge him to seek out a safe place to rest for the night. He knows it might not be particularly wise to sleep with his head injury -- he doesn’t know how serious it is, but it hurts terribly and every time he attempts to think hard or corner a thought, it throbs worse -- but he’s really awfully tired. Besides, it’s not like he can navigate through the dark. 

(Which is really not an issue regardless, for he doesn’t know where he’s headed, so navigating anywhere at all is quite difficult).

He limps to a small gathering of trees and struggles over an arrangement of rocks. He thinks he remembers distant advice; rumbling, experienced voices telling him about keeping warm and making sure his back is guarded. He’s not sure why, but he trusts these almost-memories blindly; he knows it’s important advice from important people, even if the almost-memories make his head throb and his heart cry.

He sweeps leaves and moss into a pile and curls up on it, with his back against one of the larger stones. His stomach is growling, his heart is aching, his head is pounding; his mind is fuzzy, but questions bubble impatiently within it. His mouth is dry and his body hurts. He falls asleep and imagines that he hears loud snoring and feels phantom limbs thrown across his own.

\---

He awakes at the first rays of sun on his face and gets to his feet unsteadily. He’s even more sore today and if his stomach wasn’t already empty, he’s quite certain he’d be emptying it of its content from the immense lurch of pain that comes with moving. He grits his teeth and stumbles out of his hiding place, finds his way back to the muddy path. He has to keep moving, he knows that, but he’s not sure why or where -- so he simply goes forward.

Water, another almost-memory informs him, is key. You cannot survive without water and not go wrong if you follow a stream. Many things grow near water, he recalls from even older almost-memories that make his head throb, and if he’s lucky he might find something to fill and appease his stomach with, at least a little. 

He follows his ears more than the path and stumbles several times along the way; his feet hurt, but not nearly as much as his sprained ankle, not to mention his head-- but there’s nothing he can do about it, so he keeps gritting his teeth and moving forward. 

Hours pass and his throat is so dry that every breath is sharp and scratchy, but he does, eventually, find a stream. He hobbles up to it as quickly as he can, drinks too much at once and then spends too long throwing it back up. He tries drinking more slowly, after that, and also takes the opportunity to wash his hands and face, hardly daring to touch his head wound again.

He remains sitting by the water for longer than intended, but he can’t help it; his mind is strangely numb, but there’s a sadness that hangs over him that he can’t place. He realises that he’s missing someone, or several someones -- people he used to... travel with? He’s not sure, but the vague, almost-memory of them makes his head ache so badly that he sees stars, even as his eyes prickle and sting from tears that won’t fall.

He trudges along even slower for the rest of the day, keeping close to the stream, mourning people he can’t quite remember and the fact that he doesn’t know his own name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (let us collectively hold onto the illusion that this is how amnesia works)


	3. Chapter two

Day turns into night and he finds some berries and flowers he’s strangely confident are perfectly edible. Hunger still claws at his stomach, but he can’t hunt and he can’t think as straight as he’d have liked: his priorities aren’t sorted and somehow eating... slips to the back of his mind. 

(An almost-memory is muttering about second breakfast and elevensies and an extra helping of supper, about how scandalous it is that he is not first and foremost driven by the need to fill his growling stomach; he can’t really make sense of the almost-memory, but he does stuff another handful of berries into his pockets because of it).

He finds another safe place to rest -- a small cave that fits his slight size quite perfectly and is difficult to find, unless you’re aware it’s there or, as he did, accidentally stumble upon it -- and moans quietly about all of the hurt he carries until he falls asleep.

He wakes up and continues wandering. He still has no clue where he’s going, but he goes forward -- he has a feeling that he’s looking for someone, possibly someone he was journeying with before he woke up and knew nothing. Has he-- ever known something? He must have, he reasons, because he almost-remembers things every now and then -- words and situations and people flicker around the edges of his mind, reminding him of things that are important even if he can’t remember why they are. It makes his head hurt and he has to stop several times during the day to collect himself.

Besides, even if he doesn’t even currently know his own name or why he’s wearing a shirt that is dark blue and finely detailed and entirely foreign, he knows that he’s sad. He feels it constantly; a heavy ache in his heart that won’t go away and a niggling sense of... guilt? On top of that, almost-memories-but-not-quite make him turn his head, alarmingly often, and for some reason he keeps expecting someone to be there. But no one ever is.

He’s rather afraid of what he’s done, to experience these conflicting feelings. A part of him doesn’t want to know, but most of him is desperate for information and knowledge about-- something. Anything, at this point, would be welcome.

The sun moves across the sky and every step he takes, makes the next one harder; his sprained ankle is protesting, pounding dully with his every move; his head is throbbing violently and the overbearing loneliness is weighing him down, puts a heavy weight on his chest. He wants nothing more than a bit of company and a nice, warm bed. And food, preferably loads of it. 

In the end he plops down a nearby stone and puts his arms around himself. There’s a lump in his throat that is difficult to breathe around and a combination of exhaustion and sadness make his eyes prickle again. He tries to breathe through it, but realises, after few brave minutes, that no one is around to see him anyway. So he cries. 

He cries and cries until the the last, small amount of strength that has kept him going so far seeps out of him; he keeps sniffing dryly even when there are no more tears to be shed. It’s relieving to cry, even as it makes him feel slightly silly, because he’s still not sure what he is crying _about_. Except he does, in a way, because he’s spectacularly lost and he knows nothing and he’s terribly, awfully lonely; it feels almost as if he’s somehow lost several limbs that he can’t move without. He can live without them, for sure, but it’s difficult and he doesn’t want to; the holes where they used to be are still fresh and raw. 

He slips off the stone and hobbles to the closest tree with climbable branches. He shoves a few berries in his mouth and gingerly climbs to a branch that is sturdy enough to hold his weight, high enough to provide cover among the leaves, but low enough that he wouldn’t break his neck, should he fall. A last few tears streak down his face as he falls asleep once more.

The night is cold and he shivers throughout it, has difficulties staying asleep for longer than minutes at a time. He does, finally, get some rest, however, but not until dawn is starting to stretch its arms over the sky, spreading fingers of pale blue and hints of sunlight. It is entirely too blissful, but doesn't last for long; by the time the sun has risen above the treetops, a great, warm hand yanks him out of the tree, startling him awake. His heart is beating a mile a minute as he blinks his eyes open and scrabbles for his sword-- only to pause when he realises that he’s still being held. In a pair of big, hairy arms.

“Little bunny,” booms the owner of the great, big hairy arms. He looks much like a bear, with his giant body and wide shoulders and black hair. “I have found you at last.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry that the chapters are so short; back when I started filling the prompt on LJ, the word limit annoyed me so much that I shortened the chapters accordingly. I'm trying to re-write and reformat a little, but there's really only so much I can do; hopefully, when we get to newer chapters, I'll be able to raise the wordcount/chapter. Thank you for reading :>>


	4. Chapter three

The great big bear-man starts walking, cradling the little one gently in his big arms.

“I have been searching for you for days,” he rumbles, walking steadily and slowly, but his steps seem a mile long, for they cover much distance quickly. “The Wizard came to me three days ago, said he lost you in the storm! He wanted to turn back, but alas, he was in a rush to the elves. He needn’t even ask of me to search for you: I went out immediately! It took me days, but I found you at last.”

“Wizard?” the little one echoes and has to clear his voice. He realises all at once that he’s spoken not a single word since he woke up and remembered nothing -- he’s hummed and growled and moaned and whined, but he hasn’t spoken. His voice feels strange. He’s fairly certain he’s never gone so long before, without speaking a word. It matters little at the moment, however, and he focuses instead on the bear man’s explanation. “Elves?”

The great bear-man frowns slightly as he looks down at him. “Yes, your friend, the Grey Wizard!”

“Grey Wizard?” he repeats helplessly, slurring slightly. 

The bear-man’s frown deepens and he stops walking. He brings the little one up to eye level and looks at him carefully; he angles his arm around so that he can see the little one from every angle and when he lowers him again, the bear-man looks very concerned.

“I had not realised that you were injured, forgive me,” he says. “Your head fares not well. Tell me, Bilbo Baggins, what has happened since you lost the Wizard?”

The name sounds too familiar, and the little one realises that it must be his own name. It’s a relief to have it back, even if he doesn’t feel like he belongs to the name. He figures that it will come in time, when he actually regains the memory of it, rather than experience an almost-memory at the mention of it. 

His head throbs again, but he’s learned by now that every time he comes near a memory or an almost-memory, his head hurts a bit more. It’s like his memories have been knocked out of place, locked away somewhere far away and he has to penetrate a thick wall of hurt and pain to get to the memories on the other side. 

It takes too long for him to answer, however, and the bear-man frowns again, “Do you not remember your own name?”

“I--” he--Bilbo-- clears his throat and shakes his head. He means to say, _I do now_ , but what comes out is a few garbled half-words. He tries again, for he knows precisely what he means to say, but for some reason, what comes out is another set of words that make no sense and vaguely rhyme with that he intended to say.

“Do not strain yourself, little bunny,” the bear-man booms and there’s an ill-hidden sympathy in his eyes. “It will all come back in due time, I am most certain. Rest for now and I shall take you to my home, where you can eat and bathe and regain your wits!”

He starts walking again and Bilbo doesn’t protest. He doesn’t whine and he doesn’t cry, but tears are threatening to spill the more he thinks about his words and how he can’t find them any longer. He’s slightly soothed by the bear-man, who starts weaving a tale of his lands and his home, and reintroduces himself -- for they have met before, they must have, Bilbo can sort of almost-remember him now -- as Beorn.

\---

To Bilbo’s horror, a few days of rest, food and multiple baths do not grant him back his memories, nor his words. He can pronounce words properly again, which is a relief, but he cannot for the life of him get the right one out of his mouth. He’s learned that he can repeat words -- when Beorn tells a story, Bilbo can echo the last few words of it, almost entirely correctly. But he cannot string together a sentence of his own, nevermind a story. 

It’s so frustrating he wants to cry and he does, sometimes, let a tear or two slip, when he can’t hold them back. He growls and groans and when he tries to curse, he shouts, “Silver!” or “Fungus!” or “Sweet-slipped, tree-loafing, hair-stones!”

His head still hurts, though it has been cleaned and bandaged, along with his foot and some of his deep-rooted, dark bruises. Beorn is not a healer, though, and while there are some healers among his animal-folk, their herbs and salves and tricks are better suited for themselves, rather than to outsiders. They are all exceptionally nice and pleasant and do not seem in the least offended that he can’t remember them or call them by name, even though he’s met them before. 

Beorn is the most pleasant one of them all. He’s endlessly patient and strangely sympathetic and never tries to rush anything out of Bilbo. Together they’ve managed to almost retell what has happened since Bilbo and Gandalf -- the Wizard, who is apparently a good friend of his. He’s well-acquainted with a _Wizard_ , of all things! -- parted ways, by Beorn presenting a few semi-probable scenarios and Bilbo repeating the one that fits the best. It’s tricky and it takes time, but Beorn never complains, so it would be awfully rude of Bilbo to do so.

It seems like Beorn knows considerably more than he lets on about Bilbo and the reason he’s so far from home to begin with. (At the moment, Bilbo is not entirely certain where “home” is; his aching head supplies him with faint memories of green rolling hills one moment, and loud voices and beards the next. They’re two ideas of home that obviously don’t belong, and Bilbo is not sure what to think of either of them). But Beorn refuses to let slip and when Bilbo manages to force out a question -- it takes a few tries, and in the end Beorn understands that “pester carrots” and “tomato souls”, are substitutes for “what do you know” and “what am I doing here”. Beorn claps him heartily on the back and says that Bilbo will remember himself, all in due time.

“All in due time” has become something of a favourite saying of Beorn’s, and Bilbo would like to believe him, but it’s difficult, because days upon days upon days have passed, and he doesn’t remember anything yet. His dreams are plentiful and lively and he has a feeling that he dreams about his life before the Awakening, as he’s come to call it, but every morning he wakes up and the memories evade him yet again, the dreams slipping out of reach like water through his fingers.

But despite what Beorn says, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that he worries. Bilbo doesn’t miss the frowns or the thoughtful hums or the vague allusions to history -- shared or otherwise -- that Beorn drops into conversation every now and then, as if catching Bilbo off guard will force the memories out of their locked-away place in his mind. Beorn’s animal-folk are worried as well and they show it by drawing him baths and giving him food and showering him in gifts. Sometimes some of the smaller animals will dare to come really close to him and curl around his body; they’ll make soothing sounds and noises, nuzzle his cheeks and bite his hair, as if comforting him with their warmth will somehow bring his memories back.

It doesn’t.

(But sometimes, in the early mornings or late evening, the feeling of someone so close to him will tickle at faraway almost-memories, sometimes of rolling hills and an abundance of family members, sometimes of beards and braids and furnace-like heat during icy-cold nights).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you catch any painful typos, or if you've got any questions/suggestions/etc., feel free to tell me :) Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter four

“Have you heard of the dwarves in the East, who have finally reclaimed their home?” Beorn asks one afternoon, as if Bilbo can’t have known and forgotten all about the dwarves in the East. It’s been almost five weeks since the great big bear-man with the hairy arms found Bilbo in the forest and took him home, and Bilbo has improved very little since. 

Physically, he has improved, of course; his bruises have faded and his badly twisted ankle is all but completely healed. He’s gained some weight and his body feels stronger than, he thinks, almost-remembers, it has in a long time. 

But Bilbo is still experiencing problems with his head. He’s regained a few memories -- he remembers the Shire, now, and his parents. He still can’t quite recall their names or their faces, but he remembers the calm and the adventurous and the laughs and the warmth; he remembers a few of his relatives, but mostly his little cousins. He feels like he finally belongs with his name and just a few days ago, he awoke and remembered, “I am Gandalf and Gandalf means me.”

But that is, so far, the extent of his re-remembrance. It is depressingly little and it hardly helps that he is still sad without knowing why and missing people he has no recollection of whatsoever. He has made no progress at all with his speech and has, instead, chosen to speak as little as possible. He’s quite tired of repeatedly being a bother and feeling like a fool for not being able to answer a question or excuse himself to relieve himself, without babbling about something else entirely. Beorn has, several times, stated that Bilbo needs not feel ashamed and greatly discourages the chosen silence, but Bilbo has made it clear that this is a subject he will not be budged on.

“No?” Beorn asks and switches to his story-telling voice. “Then I shall tell you of them! It was not easy for them, to reclaim their home, that was gone from them for such a long time. Indeed, not easy at all! There was a great battle, that began with the slaying of a dragon and ended with five armies fighting on the same ground! The dwarves emerged successful, thanks to their unlikely allies and the help of their brave little burglar.” 

The world _burglar_ tickles at an almost-memory, but Bilbo can’t make sense of it, so he shrugs it off. 

“Perhaps I shall take you to meet them,” Beorn muses, stretching out his long, long legs before him. “I do not think your friend the Wizard would approve much, but I do believe that it could to you good.”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow and maybe some of his scepticism shines through, because Beorn chuckles and pats his back gently, but still with enough unexpected strength to almost topple Bilbo off of his chair. 

“You should not give up hope, little bunny,” Beorn advises sagely and manages to maintain an entirely straight face, even when he pronounces the silly little nickname that Bilbo has not been able to shake off. “Last time you were here, you were such a spirited little thing. I long to see you so happy once more.”

“Happy,” Bilbo echoes faintly and turns away. He feels very lonely, all of sudden, despite the company; he’s aware of his aching, sharp sadness again, and even if he doesn’t remember why he’s so sad to begin with, he can’t imagine himself being happy again, not truly. There are traces of guilt churning in his stomach and he’s once again reminded of his theories about himself, about how he has no clue who he is or what he’s done to deserve these feelings. 

He’s not a criminal, he’s fairly certain, because Beorn seems like a mightily righteous bear-man who would not approve of criminality, and they are friends. Then again, there is a heavy, curious golden ring in the pocket of his waistcoat that he has no recollection of acquiring -- a ring that looks too expensive for him, and doesn’t really fit his taste of jewellery, to boot. It’s not his, he knows, but it’s currently in his possession and he is, oddly, rather reluctant to part with it. 

All in all, Bilbo doesn't know what to believe, but settles on not trusting himself wholly. 

“Yes,” Beorn hums, his voice low and pleasant, his eyes lingering thoughtfully on Bilbo. “I do believe I shall take you to see the dwarves.”

\---

A few nights later, Bilbo wakes up suddenly, with cold tears on his face and an apology on his lips. He tries to calm his harsh breathing as he looks around the room, trying to determine his surroundings -- he’s alone, why is he alone? he shouldn’t be, there are others, they were right here, just a moment ago, his companions--

His head starts to pound suddenly and he lets out a strained gasp and closes his eyes; the throbbing is nearly unbearable and he feels sick. He lays back down slowly, slowly and makes a distressed noise he’s not entirely proud of once his head meets the pillow once more.

There is some bustling by the door and it’s opened cautiously; he glances up and sees a young doe and two hares looking at him worriedly. Bilbo waves one hand tiredly and means to murmur _I’m quite fine_ , but what comes out is, “I’m quiet fire,” which, he deems, is close enough. He’s not in the mood to even begin to dredge up the familiar frustration and just sighs instead. 

The animals seem reluctant, but they leave and close the door behind them. Bilbo stares at the ceiling and feels almost-memories slip back to the far corners of his mind, just beyond his reach again.

\---

Beorn is very determined and it only takes him three days to get Bilbo to agree to go see the dwarves. Mind, Bilbo is rather convinced that Beorn would take him to the mountain to see the dwarves regardless if he wanted to or not -- Beorn is great and mighty and strong and stubborn, there is most likely very little that he cannot do once he sets his mind to it -- but the bear-man had wanted Bilbo’s approval and in the end, he manages to sweet-talk himself not only some approval, but also the slightest hints of enthusiasm. Beorn’s most smotheringly pleased with himself for the rest of the day. 

(Almost-memories claw at his mind, and Bilbo is torn between excitement and trepidation, when he hears the word _adventure_ : he thinks he can hear his mother sing softly about far-off lands and heroes, even as he can imagine his father’s stern presence, disapproving of wild games and anything that is not proper enough for his tastes. He’s not sure, but he remembers the Shire again, almost-sees what is maybe his home and can almost-recall the colour of his mother’s eyes. It’s breathtaking).

The day after Bilbo agrees to the adventure, they set off; Bilbo valiantly bites back his tears as he says his goodbyes to all the animal-folk, especially the youngest ones; they have all been so very nice to him, so friendly and caring. What’s worse is probably the act of leaving -- for some reason it makes him angry and inexplicably sad, and his head throbs awfully. Beorn almost seems to change his mind as they leave, like he wants to turn around and magically keep Bilbo from hurting by keeping him in his Halls, but in the end they trudge on, Bilbo supporting himself on a walking stick, pretending that Beorn isn’t walking almost uncomfortably close to him, just in case Bilbo trips or needs to rest.

They travel at a leisurely pace the first day, Beorn indulging Bilbo rather too much with his eating habits. Beorn tells a great many tales of the woods they’re headed towards -- Mirkwood, formerly known as the Greenwood -- and the flora and fauna they encounter on their way. He urges Bilbo to speak, which the little one does only half the time, stuttering out an echo of Beorn’s last words, when he cannot bring himself to trip over his tongue.

Beorn calls him “hobbit” once and Bilbo promptly has to sit down. He is so angry at himself for forgetting that he is a _hobbit_ , he comes from the land of hobbits, he’s a proper gentlehobbit but not quite -- but even as he’s angry, his head hurts terribly and they have to stop for the day. He lets out a string of nonsensical words that are supposed to be curses and swearwords for the foul-mouthed, but instead he rattles on about gardening utensils, books, fruits and whatever words his mouth tricks him to say. He stomps his feet rather childishly and groans loudly, rubbing away useless tears with a frustrated scrub of his hand over his face.

Beorn pats him gently on the back and wisely doesn’t comment; he gets a fire going and offers Bilbo even more food, as if they haven’t eaten too much today already. 

\---

Days pass and they travel slightly faster; Beorn keeps his good humour and Bilbo does his best to keep the mood up as well, humming half-remembered wandering tunes, leaving the lyrics out entirely. Beorn doesn’t need much rest, so he takes most of the watches at night, but he does, occasionally, allow Bilbo that responsibility. On the condition that Bilbo stays close, of course, and Bilbo can’t really do anything but obey that simple rule, especially when Beorn makes it impossible by curling close to him as he sleeps. 

While it is, undeniably, quite pleasant to never feel cold at night -- that is nearly impossible with a great big bear wrapped around him -- Bilbo does tut and mutter to himself about it every now and then, wishing that he had the voice to point out that he managed to stay alive before they met, thank you very much. There is a fine line between being cared for and being coddled, and Beorn has a grand way of leaping over that line, enthusiastically, with alarming frequency and when there is no need to.

But then, there are times when Bilbo feels dizzy with almost-memories and is so exhausted from remembering that he can barely walk straight, when he truly would not have survived without Beorn’s company and care. So he tries to keep his wordless complaints to a minimum, saves them for Beorn’s most ludicrous notions, like carrying or feeding him.

“What do you dream of, Bilbo?” Beorn wonders an early morning, solemnly, when the sun is just rising and the air is surprisingly warm. He’s learned to forego nicknames in the mornings, because Bilbo doesn’t let them pass as easily when he’s sleep-mussed and lacks his usual brain-to-mouth filter. “You speak more during the night than you do during the day -- and you call out for old companions. I do not mean intrude,” he adds gently, in his grand, booming voice. “But you always sound very distressed. It has me worried.”

_Memories_ , Bilbo means to answer, but out of nowhere his mouth decides to say, “Cherish,” and Bilbo tries to correct himself, but he can’t, instead he spits out “Celery”, “Feathery” and “Memorial”. _Memories_ , he wants to answer, _I dream of memories that I can never recall come morning._

Beorn’s eyes glitter with sympathy and he puts a huge hand on Bilbo’s small shoulder, and says, “Keep trying, little bunny, for one day you words and memories will return. All in due time.”

Mouth dry and tongue stuck on words that make no sense, Bilbo nods along, but secretly starts to resign himself to a lifetime of almost-memories and silence.


	6. Chapter five

“We must not stray from the path,” Beorn says sagely, enunciating every word with care. He has repeated this very sentence four times this morning, he said it approximately ten times yesterday and a few times the day before that. In fact, Beorn has said those exact words at least a handful of times every day since they entered Mirkwood, about two weeks ago. 

It’s a sentence that Bilbo can say without stuttering or unintentionally exchanging any words; he’s quite positive that if one were to wake him abruptly in the middle of the night, that would be the first complete sentence he’d be able to string together. 

It’s Beorn personal mantra, it seems. He keeps vaguely alluding to another story that Bilbo can’t remember, but it’s a story that definitely involves straying from the path and suffering the consequences. The hobbit would be amused, if Beorn wasn’t so very adamant and serious about not, for any reason, leaving the safe path. 

Beorn tells him of the stream of forgetfulness and Bilbo briefly wonders if diving into it will double his amnesia and cancel it out. He half-wants to do it, just to try, but then almost-remembers how hobbits do not swim, just strange hobbits who are called something like Bendybulls, who are not respectable. Most knowledge he’s regained about hobbits is confusing; every little bit of history and culture is odd, but important, and certainly seems to fit into a bigger picture: but the puzzle pieces are uneven and half of them are still missing. 

“Maybe we should pay a visit to the elves,” Beorn hums thoughtfully, holding up branches and kicking away stones to clear the path for Bilbo, and the little one bites back a sigh, carefully doesn’t roll his eyes. “Long has it been since I visited the elves. But maybe not,” he continues, glancing at Bilbo as if he thinks that the hobbit will remember more easily if he looks at him pointedly. “They do have a tendency to be very _captivating_ hosts, and we do not wish to barrel our way out, when we have stayed too long.” 

Bilbo raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at Beorn. Beorn smiles sadly and instead starts telling a tale of the Eagles of Manwë, and how they have only tried to take his sheep a single time, and wisely not attempted it since. He is more amused than Bilbo by the story, but Bilbo does manage a laugh and a smile, glad that some things are simple and not distorted. Laughing is good, he can’t do that wrong. 

They walk until nightfall, when the dark forest is bathed in black. As they make camp, Beorn proclaims them close to the end of the forest; it sets a good mood over them both, and they hum together as they prepare dinner. Bilbo adds spices and herbs to their stew when an almost-memory tickles at him to, is pleased to find that it makes the food taste better and maybe, if nothing else, whatever and whoever he is, he’s at least a good cook. At least he has that, and it’s a knowledge that sits comfortably in his chest.

They settle down around their small fire to eat; for a short moment, a companionable silence falls over their camp. Then Beorn can no longer keep himself from telling a grand evening tale, and bursts out into another animated retelling of the Slaying of the Dragon and the brave men of Laketown. Bilbo knows the story by heart now, even if he doesn’t _know_ it. The dragon, however, tickles at an almost-something every time.

 _Ringwinner, Luckwearer_ and _Barrel-rider_ hit him all at once and his head aches so terribly Bilbo has to put down his bowl and run to the nearest tree; his stomach lurches and he is sick twice. His head is pounding, he remembers, _I am the friend of bears and the guest of eagles_ , and has to sit down and close his eyes. The words are familiar on his tongue, clever riddling he almost-remembers being proud of.

He hears Beorn come toward him and is wrapped up in a heavy, warm blanket. 

Clever riddling indeed, he thinks, but he cannot remember the answer or the question any longer. He weakly wonders if he ever did, even before the Awakening. 

“Do you want to share with me what it is that you have remembered?” Beorn booms lowly, voice soothing and soft. He sits down beside Bilbo and effortlessly offers comfort. 

Bilbo means to say, “Riddles,” but what comes out is, “Lids.”

He growls miserably and scrubs a hand over his eyes. His mouth tastes like vomit and Beorn miraculously understands that he’s asking for water when he murmurs, “Potter”, and Bilbo is rightly tired of this entire business, whatever business it is.

“It is time to sleep, and tonight I shall keep watch. If you wish, you can tell me what you have remembered on the morrow,” Beorn murmurs. “Good night, little bunny, and sleep well.”

Bilbo absently echoes the sentiment, before he lays down to sleep as Beorn changes shape. Beorn curls around him again, warm and soft, and Bilbo once again almost-remembers the warmth of others, of maybe-companions, and feels lost. He is, however, indescribably glad to be a friend of bears and falls asleep feeling slightly less weighed down.

\---

In the following days, they leave the Mirkwood behind and arrive to Laketown. Bilbo’s head starts to ache near constantly; it hurts behind his eyes, out to his ears, down his neck. But despite the headache, no almost-memory returns to him: they just tickle peripherally, out of reach. 

They have to travel slowly and rest frequently; Beorn frowns too much and Bilbo tries to look less like he’s going to be sick any moment all the time. 

The men of Laketown are respectful, but they keep their distance; Beorn is enormous next to Bilbo, and while the Big Folk are a good deal taller than Bilbo, they are still much smaller than the bear-man. Beorn asks for a room at the inn for Bilbo’s sake, and mutters ceaselessly about how small it is. 

“Maybe it is I, who is too large,” he allows after a while, and accidentally overturns another chair as he spins around, bumps into a table that scrapes loudly against the floor. “But surely, even men are not this small!”

Bilbo smiles; he would laugh, but he’s learnt that laughing is too jarring, makes him hurt; he hates that even this simple thing is now hard for him. He waves his hand, though, nodding slightly at Beorn to show that he agrees with him, even if the room is actually very much huge, in his humble hobbit opinion. 

He winces as an almost-memory niggles in the back of his mind and he almost-recalls sneezing for days, feeling cold and being filled with anticipation all at once. He feels as if he’s close to something, as if this is, or has been, a place of waiting. He’s not sure what he could possibly have waited for here, and he almost-remembers company again, his missing limbs, thinks that maybe there were beards involved. 

The headache gets increasingly worse when he tries to corner the almost-thought of beards and he gives it up. He notices that Beorn is frowning at him again and waves it off, lies down instead. 

“Tomorrow we shall head to the Lonely Mountain, little bunny,” Beorn says resolutely as he sits down on the other bed. It creaks ominously under his weight, and as the great bear-man lies down, he looks comically out of proportion, arms and legs sticking out all over the place. 

“Hop banging sea hat,” Bilbo mutters, sounding irritated enough for Beorn to understand what he means, feeling that he has to make his ever present displeasure at the nickname known. Beorn has the gall to laugh and Bilbo hides a small smile in his pillow as he falls asleep. 

\--

When he awakes, his head is throbbing. It hurts to move and he blinks away tears, desperately chasing after his dreams, trying to grasp what they were about. The only thing he manages to catch is _thrush_ and _runes_ , though it makes no sense; he grits his teeth and briefly wishes he hadn’t remembered the words at all, feeling that they were not worth the additional pain they’d caused.

Then he sighs. Desultory words he can make nothing of, are surely better than no words remembered at all; and truly, the headache is not as bad as it was yesterday.

He stays in bed until his stomach starts complaining. He reluctantly rolls out of bed and moves gingerly, as to not jar his head, as he dresses and heads out to find Beorn. 

He feels strangely breathless, as he searches for his friend; being alone makes his hands tremble and the loneliness that has been kept at bay somewhat lately, comes crawling back quickly, suffocating, making Bilbo feel like just after Awakening, when everything was heavy and he knew nothing but that he was alone and unbearably sad. 

He’s relieved beyond words -- had he _had_ words, that is -- when he stumbles into the dining hall and finds the bear-man. The sadness eases back a little as he walks over and climbs up to sit beside Beorn.

“Good morning, little bunny!” Beorn greets cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”

Bilbo shakes his hand, gesturing weakly that no, he didn’t sleep well, but he didn’t sleep particularly unwell either. 

Beorn nods and starts to load a plate for Bilbo, as he asks, “How fares your head today? Does it hurt?”

“Hurt,” Bilbo echoes with a sigh and smiles gratefully when Beorn sets a breakfast plate before him. 

“Like yesterday?” Beorn asks. Bilbo shakes his head and Beorn adds, “Or more? Less?”

Bilbo is so grateful for Beorn’s patience, for knowing how to speak so that Bilbo can repeat it. It makes him happy, but it also makes him feel bad -- he can’t help but feel like he’s making Beorn go through such trouble, just for him, the helpless fool that he currently is; he feels like a right nuisance, he does. The hobbit sighs again and repeats, “Less.” 

“How splendid,” Beorn booms and happily continues to munch on his breakfast. 

The door is suddenly flung open and a man takes a half step into the room; he is tall and grim-faced, with a bow and a quiver slung over his shoulder. He stares at Bilbo like he knows him and Bilbo’s head aches, but not a single memory springs forth. 

“Master Baggins!” the man exclaims and steps forward fully. “I thought for sure that the rumours bore the wrong name, when they reached me and spoke of yours -- but it seems I was wrong. Tell me, what brings you to the East again so soon?”

Bilbo makes a small sound and wants to hide; this man looks so pleased to see him, he definitely knows Bilbo, but Bilbo does not know him, doesn’t even know himself. He feels nearly sick with guilt, suddenly, and he’s ashamed and embarrassed and cowers helplessly, as much as he can, behind Beorn. What a pitiful fool he is, that he cannot even greet a man who seems to be his friend by name.

When no reply is forthcoming, the man frowns. 

Bilbo looks pleadingly at Beorn and the bear-man nods, understands, like he always impossibly does. 

“Master Baggins has travelled here with me,” Beorn answers, back straight, looking very much like a bear, even though he’s wearing his other skin. Bilbo finds himself slightly impressed by Beorn’s respectability and politeness, as he usually booms every word and nicknames all that he sees. “I have taken him here to see the dwarves. I believe they may hold a cure for Master Baggins.”

“A cure?” the man’s frown deepens and he struggles to catch Bilbo’s eyes, even as the little one hides as well as he can behind Beorn. “For what?”

“He suffered a grievous head-injury on his journey to the West,” Beorn explains slowly, looking very much like he’d rather have Bilbo try and tell the story. Bilbo, however, will not try. He bites his lip and swallows and looks away and refuses to even open his mouth, afraid that nonsense will come out, and feels like a right coward for it. “And lost nearly all of his memories.”

The man’s face falls, and his expression shifts from shock to sadness to anger and disbelief. He’s silent for a moment, before he says, almost uncertainly, “I understand,” and clears his throat. He strides into the room and stops before Bilbo, bows deeply, and says. “I am Bard of Laketown, at your service, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo blinks and bows back hesitantly, wondering what he has done to earn the respect of one of the Big Folk, and such a fine man at it -- not every man, not even every _person_ , regardless of race, would be so understanding and sympathetic, tactfully unquestioning. 

Bard looks between Bilbo and Beorn for a moment, opens his mouth to say something, then changes his mind and closes it again. He says instead, “You have aided us greatly, Master Baggins, and even if you do not remember it, the people of Laketown always will. If there is anything you need, do not hesitate to let us know. Now,” he continues. “I shall not bother you more. I am truly sorry that this fate has befallen you and I wish you all the luck in the world, in finding a cure.”

Bard bows again and leaves. 

Bilbo closes his eyes against the headache, but it’s to no avail. Still no memory has returned of Bard, not even a tickle from an almost-memory. 

Maybe he will never regain his memories. Maybe-- maybe he won’t remember anything else. Maybe he will always live like this -- unable to speak, miserably lonely and sad with no idea why, unsure of everything, most of all himself.

Bilbo glances at his breakfast plate and finds that he has lost his appetite, and no almost-memory of hobbits and their food, or gentle urging from Beorn, can convince him to eat. At last, Beorn gives up and says, with an air of utter defeat that is rather too dramatic, “Then I believe it is time we head to the mountain.”


	7. Chapter six

Bilbo has heard of the dwarves’ quest and knows that they have fought very hard for their hearth and home and treasure -- though Beorn is not overly fond of dwarves, he does like a good story, and is of the firm opinion that a good story can be retold again and again (and again). That, however, does not explain why Beorn has so consistently been insisting on taking Bilbo to see them.

He thinks that, maybe, he’s supposed to know some of the dwarves; it’s a rather fanciful notion to entertain, that he would know dwarves, but he seems to have known Bard before the Awakening, so truly, he can’t discard any theories. He doesn’t know who he was, or is-- if he can even consider himself the same person that he used to be, as memories make up a significant portion of one’s personality, and he’s lost his.

Who knows what he was up to, before the Awakening? He was travelling with a Wizard, after all, and did something to earn the respect of a whole township of men, as it seems -- and, and from what he remembers, almost-recalls, hobbits do not generally leave the Shire. He can’t have been proper at all, but he’s-- he’s a Baggins, bebother his aching head, and Bagginses are _respectable_.

Bilbo is so terribly tired of being confused all the time. 

He sighs and shoulders his pack. Beorn has changed skin and is waiting outside the inn; he woke up this morning, convinced that Bilbo cannot walk on his own today and wants to make sure they get to the Lonely Mountain as soon as possible, doesn’t want to stop along the way. It took a great deal of cajoling, but in the end, Bilbo gave in -- as he is wont to do, he’s noticed, when it comes to Beorn. For all that Beorn is a bear, he can look very much like a big-eyed puppy.

So when he steps outside and hears the door fall shut behind him, he is resigned to riding on the back of a bear to the Lonely Mountain -- but he cannot help but roll his eyes when he sees that he has to climb up a rather tall chair to get on top of Beorn. He grumbles and clucks his tongue as he struggles to get up, for even with the tall chair, he is small and everything else is really awfully big. 

He lets out a huff of breath when he is finally seated on top of the great black bear, who has the air of someone indubitably amused. Bilbo pokes Beorn’s furry cheek and mutters, “Lily steer,” when he wants to say, “Silly bear”. At least, he sighs to himself, it rhymes.

Beorn makes a sound and Bilbo nods. He holds onto the fur as tightly as he can and closes his eyes against the initial jerk of movement as Beorn begins to move. He lumbers through Laketown, movements slow and strong as he ducks and weaves through the town and its people, but the moment they cross the borders, he growls something Bilbo assumes means, “Hold on, little bunny,” and starts running. 

It’s quite exhilarating, once Bilbo stops feeling sick and manages to turn his gaze from the dark fur of Beorn’s neck, to their surroundings. It feels almost like flying, and he thinks, _guest of the eagles_ , and realises that maybe he has actually flown before. An almost-memory dances out of reach, but the throb in his head definitely says eagles, he’s definitely flown with eagles.

Not for the last time, Bilbo wonders who he is and what he has done. The ever present guilt lies heavy around his heart still, and the sadness too -- and as they near the mountain, a tense anticipation starts to slither up his spine. His hands start shaking and he realises that he is nervous, though he cannot figure out why. 

As they approach the great, grand stone gates, a shout erupts from somewhere within, and voices travel around, get louder and then fainter, as if they’re travelling into the mountain. Bilbo wonders if it’s him, for whatever reason, or the gigantic bear that he rides on that is causing such an uproar amongst the dwarves. The bear, hopefully -- Bilbo does not particularly want to be the cause of such a big fuss.

They’re let through the gates without question, and Bilbo’s heart is beating impossibly fast as he slides off of the bear, casts an absent glance over his shoulder as Beorn changes skin and becomes a man again. The dwarves whisper and mutter and stare and hiss, and Bilbo steps closer to his friend and wants to say, _maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,_ that maybe they should turn around and go back to Beorn’s Halls, to the sweet, friendly, kindly animal-folk who never judged. 

“Come, little bunny,” Beorn murmurs softly and gently nudges Bilbo along as he strides through the hall, walking at such a pace that Bilbo can keep up with ease. 

The inside of Erebor is obviously under construction; there is something happening everywhere, dwarves are walking to and fro, carrying rubble, removing rocks and building new things. Bilbo looks around and sees the desolation that the dragon wrought upon this place, much like it had in the lands outside; despite the fast-paced journey, Bilbo had seen the battlefield and the scorched land. 

_Not dead land_ , a vaguely familiar voice tells him, something from the Shire, a voice that makes him feel homesick for a home he can’t quite remember. His head throbs, but he sees the rolling, green hills, and knows, without a doubt, even if he doesn’t know how he knows, that the land can be salvaged. Green things can grow here once more, just as this old dwarven city can be restored to its former glory.

Bilbo thinks he hears running feet, and a distant call of, _“Burglar!”_ , but then he’s ushered into what can only be an audience hall; it’s extremely spacious, furnished just richly enough, with a high ceiling and tall windows, from which some sunlight filters through. Other than a few cracked pillars, it seems largely unharmed by the dragon; time, however, has taken its toll, and it shows on the faded colours of the walls, the sadly dangling chandeliers. 

The little one trails helplessly after Beorn, clenches his hands, tries to keep them from shaking. He’s filled with an odd sense of doom, he can’t place it, swallows and sighs and looks around and doesn’t understand at all what it is he is feeling, helplessly restless, so confused he’s growing dizzy from it.

At the other end of the room, there are three thrones at different heights; however, they’re all unoccupied at the moment. There’s a great wooden table not far from the thrones, covered in parchments and books and quills. At least ten dwarves are gathered around the table, in the middle of a discussion that seems so important that they all have to raise their voices at each other, over each other. 

Bilbo hears his father’s voice muttering, _Manners_. For just a second, his knees turn weak with relief that he can remember his father’s voice. 

“Master Beorn!” a deep voice exclaims, startling Bilbo out of his memories, causing all heads to whirl from the important table with the parchments, to the bear-man. Bilbo hides behind his friend and tries to breathe calmly, feels nervous, doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Beorn returns mightily, not one for titles.

“You are welcome indeed to Erebor,” Thorin Oakenshield says, eyes bright, like he can’t believe that he gets to say that, but the rest of his face is carefully polite, like he doesn’t know what to expect. “You were a great ally in the battle and will forevermore be a dwarf-friend. But what business brings a skin-changer to Erebor?”

Thorin Oakenshield looks every inch the king he is, reflects Bilbo as he just barely glances out from behind Beorn’s back, watching the golden crown upon the dwarf’s brow and his royal blue, fur-lined coat. Black hair, black beard, blue eyes, regal posture, sword at his hip; he carries himself with a great air of pride and importance, ready to make difficult decisions and give orders at a moment’s notice. A true king, the King under the Mountain. It’s very heartening.

Beorn just begins to answer, when several dwarves come rushing into the throne room at once, stumbling into each other and almost falling over in their haste.

“Bilbo!” one of them cries and Bilbo turns around out of habit, because he belongs to his name now. 

He’s met with that stare again, that look that _knows_ him, and his headache suddenly takes a new turn for the worse. He watches the dwarves watch him, and they all look so happy, but he doesn’t know them. He finds himself half-disappointed, because he thought that maybe he would recognise someone, but there’s no throb of remembrance, there is no almost-memory tickling at something he maybe recognises -- but then, maybe he just can’t feel anything beyond the pain.

And the dwarves watch him, and he doesn’t react, and their faces begin to fall. 

A dwarf with a queer moustache and a cosy-looking hat takes half a step forward, looking as though his heart is going to break any second, and says, carefully, “Bilbo…?”

Bilbo shakes his head and feels ashamed in a way he can’t name; he feels sorry for these dwarves, for they know him, but he doesn’t know them. These-- these strangers, their eyes expect something from him, but he can’t do anything for them, he can’t even speak for himself. Guilt churns in his stomach and he reaches out to Beorn, who puts a large, warm hand on his shoulder.

“This is the business that brings me to Erebor,” Beorn booms and the merriment that usually hangs on his every word and along the line of his mouth is gone. Bilbo turns around, turns his back to the dwarves who are looking at him as if he has just poured sour milk over their favourite dish, shifts closer to Beorn and leans into his hand. 

He has never felt more lost.


	8. Chapter seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (whispers) _looks like we've finally caught up to where this fic is on LJ_
> 
> In Sweden, the great shablam-hippity-hoop-lala-fun-magic of Christmas is on Christmas Eve, and the day after is Official Dinner-With-Guests Day, so while this chapter is, sadly, quite short, I won't be able to update in a few days. But! Soon! It truly won't be too long until the next update. 
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone and merry Christmas to those who celebrate it! Regardless of what your holiday plans might entail, I hope they will be fantastic. ;>

“I thought the burglar was banished from these halls,” a dwarf grumbles, round and strong with burgundy locks and an intricately braided beard, glaring at Bilbo as if _he’s_ a burglar. Then again, maybe Bilbo _is_ a burglar: he does have the strange golden ring that’s obviously not his, after all. Maybe he really is a criminal, maybe he has committed a horrendous crime, maybe he left the Shire because he is a crook-- maybe they _threw him out_ \-- what if he is a bad person, is he a bad person? Bilbo puts a hand to his throbbing head and tries to calm down, clenches and unclenches his other hand, breathes deeply through his nose. 

“He was never formally banished,” Thorin Oakenshield says carefully, neutrally, dangerously, watching Bilbo as though he can’t gauge him, can’t decide what to do with him. A couple of the dwarves who are still standing by the important table look hopeful at that, and they look at Bilbo again, and they seem to know him as well. 

He keeps staring at their beards, he can’t remember them, but he wants to, but not, maybe he does remember them, there’s something that almost resembles an almost-memory trilling at him, but he’s not sure. He does not know anything and he is staggeringly glad for Beorn’s presence, even as he is mad that he has been dragged into this situation that feels oddly, politically loaded. 

Beorn is looking at Thorin like he’s measuring him, weighing him up, willing Thorin to make the right decision, whatever that might be. Staying silent for this long does, so far, not seem to be the right decision.

Bilbo’s eyes stray to the throne again, to the inlaid jewels at the top of it, and an almost-memory lashes out at him, almost violently, and he thinks _Arkenstone, the stolen Arkenstone_ and _I was just going to bargain with it_ , the latter a thought that feels worn out, ridden with guilt. But it doesn’t make sense, he doesn’t even know what he was going to bargain with or about, doesn’t know what the Arkenstone is or why it was stolen, not even by whom. 

His head is pounding, throbbing, and he leans more heavily again Beorn, closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Beorn is frowning worriedly at him, the dwarves are frowning at him, everyone is frowning and Bilbo wants to scream, to get out, he needs air. Air, air-- air rushing at him, being _held over a great wall_ \-- shaken, a traitor--he’s going to fall, he-- Bilbo can’t _breathe_ \--

Beorn’s hand clamps down on his other shoulder and suddenly Bilbo is back. He blinks his eyes open and swallows heavily. He’s sweaty, clammy, but at least he hasn’t been sick all over the audience hall floor.

Bilbo swallows again, thickly, wishing that he was anywhere but here. He feels weak in the knees again, and hopes fervently, with all his heart, that he will never be assaulted with a memory in that particular fashion ever again. 

“Bilbo Baggins has suffered a grievous head injury and lost his memories. He has stayed in my Halls since I found him, and despite everything we have tried, his memories have not returned. I had thought that bringing him here would help,” Beorn booms, and he sounds angry, upset, serious in a way that he never does, except that one time when one of the foxes attacked a squirrel, but after he’d talked it through with them, it had been fine, the mood had lifted quite quickly then. Bilbo is not so sure it’s going to lift now. Beorn looks grave as he finishes, “Sadly, it appears I was wrong.”

Beorn does not bow, but he does give the king a peculiar kind of look, before he turns around, one hand spanning over Bilbo’s back, ushering him along. Bilbo averts his eyes when the dwarves who’d come running in look beseechingly at him, as if they’re waiting for him to say something, to prove something to them that he can’t prove, can’t say, for he can’t speak and he’s afraid to open his mouth here, to ruin the person they think he is, the person they remember.

“Wait!”

Beorn stops and looks over his shoulder. Bilbo glances back and sees that one of the dwarves at the important table has stepped forward; he is young, with bright golden hair, a braided moustache and a short beard. He looks slightly awkward now, as if he didn’t actually expect anyone to listen to him, but he clears his throat, stands his ground and says, “Surely, my King, we cannot let Master Baggins leave without trying to help him? Banished or no, he did help us reclaim our home. It would, it would bring dishonour on the Company Contract, if we allowed him to leave so obviously injured.”

“Indeed,” another dwarf hurries to agree, an older one, with a glint in his eyes and a brilliantly white beard. “The Contract was never formally terminated and as such, Master Baggins is our responsibility. It never said anything about this specific kind of head injury in the Contract. We are obliged to help, lest we break our own conditions.”

Beorn turns around completely and Bilbo hesitantly follows suit. He is not sure what’s happening, but every dwarf except the one who’d called him burglar looks vaguely hopeful, and the King looks torn between frustration and relief. 

“As a member of my Company,” Thorin finally says. “Master Baggins is indeed entitled to aid we are obliged to offer. He may, if he wishes, stay and receive treatment from our healers.”

The dwarves look as if they’re just about ready to hoist Thorin up in the air for making such a great decision, so helplessly glad are they for it. Thorin looks troubled and vaguely as though he's already regretting his decision, resignation in the line of his shoulders, but a spark of something hot, like a steady anger, in his eyes. 

Beorn’s shoulders fall down and he looks pleased. Bilbo’s head is aching, throbbing, pounding ceaselessly, making the hurt spread further again, to his ears and down his neck, and he mostly wants to have a bit of a lie-down. He doesn’t understand precisely what has just happened, other than that he’s being allowed to stay despite whatever abominable crime he has committed, thanks to a contract he has no memory of. 

He’s not sure if he wants to stay, definitely not if Beorn was to leave, but somehow the sadness eases back a little again, and right now, that is enough.


End file.
